Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  And when the story was told, she said: but, Abelard, what reason was there for that covenant? Abélard, told her that Fulbert was beside himself with grief, and he continued for a long time trying to persuade her that Fulbert had done right, and could not have done else, for, as thou hast told me, Héloïse, he fears his brother’s spirit and may have had a message from him that marriage must be exacted. But master of words though he was, his words fell dryly on Héloïse’s ears, and she may not have heard half of what he spoke. Then thy promise to me to enter the Church counts for nothing? she asked; we shall be judged ill in other days and hours; and I shall take my place among the many women who have brought ruin upon men. But this shall not be, Abélard. Ask all else of me, but ask me not to ruin thee and to make myself a shame during all time. Héloïse, thou wilt not hear, and the woman whom he had always seen meek he now saw raging through the room to and fro, unable for her passion to hear him. Thou wilt not hear! he cried. And when she stopped before him to tell him in a sudden calm of mind that the philosopher is never the married man, he knew that there was right on her side. Hast forgotten St. Paul’s words? she asked, just as he expected she would: art thou free from women? if not, it is better that a man should marry than that he should burn, and quickly St. Jerome’s words were hurled at him: fornication is a refuse heap, marriage is barley, chastity wheaten flour. And Cicero? she said, breaking back to classical antiquity for proof that Abélard’s work would dwindle and end in the materialism of married life. When Cicero was asked to marry Terentia, he refused to do so, saying that he could not give his mind equally to woman and philosophy. Art thou less than Cicero? Remember, Abélard, the words of Seneca, whom we have read together: we must neglect everything for philosophy, life is not long enough, and all interruptions rob us of the fruit. Jesus did not condemn marriage, but he did not take to himself a wife, nor did Buddha. But Mohammed, Abelard replied, seeking to escape from an argument in which he was being worsted, was a married man, I believe. But he was a warrior, not a philosopher, Héloïse answered at once; and they began to talk of the Koran, without either knowing whether it contained a philosophy comparable to the great creed of nothingness taught by Buddha. We are talking, Abélard said at last, of what neither of us knows anything about. If we know little, Héloïse answered, of Buddha, we both know that Socrates was married, and that the sufferings of his married life should cause the most thoughtless to ponder; and to escape from the violent mood which his proposal of marriage had awakened in Héloïse, Abélard asked her if she remembered the storm of abuse with which Xanthippe assailed Socrates from the windows of his house, and the filthy fluid poured upon him from above, and how he had answered, while wiping his head clean: thunder always brings rain. Come, he said, let us look at our child again, who, poor darling, has provoked our first dissension. And they watched a sweet, good-humoured child who, having taken enough milk from the breast, was looking round vaguely interested in the strange world into which he had come. Already, Héloïse said, thoughts are stirring in him. He wants thy ring, Abélard; give it to him. And Abélard gave the ring, saying: a hostage I will claim when we return to Brittany. Shall we ever return hither, she said, if we leave it? Héloïse, Héloïse! Abélard cried, for he feared that the argument between them was about to begin again.

  CHAP. XXVI.

  AND THE ARGUMENT might have begun again had not Denise and her husband come into the room and Abélard gone out with his brother-in-law, leaving Héloïse with his sister, who would have liked to hear of the meeting between the lovers. But Héloïse did not care to share her mind with anybody, and the evening passed away amid family talk of relations and friends, and at nine o’clock they all went out to view a poor stricken cow that had been turned out into the field after calving and was now dying. It was painful to watch her agony and they returned to the stead, Denise and her husband thinking what they might do to relieve the poor animal’s sufferings, undecided whether it would not be better to kill her that night. Abélard and Héloïse looking forward to a fresh disputation as soon as they might find themselves alone, each stubborn, each determined to carry his or her point. Side by side they lay divided, Abélard appealing (treacherously, Héloise thought) to her love of him. But my love, she cried, is powerless to make wrong right; Abélard, thou art mine and I am thine, but thou art part of the world’s heritage and thou canst not surrender it. Art thou the guardian of this world? he asked. A cruel answer, she replied, and anon he heard her weeping. She threw her arms about him, and body catching fire from body, voices softened for a while, and having taken their joy of each other, each lay listening to the other’s breathing till shallow sleep came, and starting out of an evil dream, she heard his voice in the darkness saying suddenly: thou art afraid lest in time to come thou shouldst be accused of having sacrificed me. Even so, she replied; is that a fault? He did not answer, for he felt that he had spoken harsh words. As they lay divided their thoughts turned to the cow dying in the byre, and at last they began to talk of the cow, and fell asleep while talking of her.

  The news next morning was that the cow might recover after all, and the lovers were invited to the byre to mark the improvement. But the sight of the choking cow was still painful to watch, and leaving the byre Abélard and Héloïse walked to Le Pallet, for Héloïse was minded to go thither with him to see the house he was born in, and follow with him the winding course of the Sangeuse under the bare poplar-trees. It was under these trees that the argument began again: Abélard, thou hast made a covenant with my uncle, but means of escape can be discovered from thy bond. Whereupon Abélard could hold his secret no longer to him, and he told her all that he had heard from Mangold, that his life hung upon his marriage with her. Why didst thou not tell me that thy life was in danger? So to save thy life I have to destroy it, she said. Thy thought is the same as it was overnight? Abélard asked. The same, Héloïse answered, but now enforced by reason, for now I understand that my uncle is but a tool in the hands of the Church. The Church would have thee married lest thou shouldst enter the Church and rise from priest to bishop. Only by keeping thee out of the Church can the Church conquer; and it has conquered, for to save thy mortal life, Abélard, I will wed thee. To-morrow we go to Paris, for the breaking of the covenant would cost me thy life. To break it would be like flinging thy life into the air like a coin. But it is part of the covenant that our marriage is to be kept secret, Abélard rejoined, Héloïse answering him quickly that Fulbert would not keep the secret. For why should he, she asked, and the twain stood looking at each other abashed, Héloïse breaking the pause, her words: ah, the intrigue is woven skilfully — the Church rids herself of a stumbling-block and Fulbert gets his revenge, rising up in her mind without premeditation as if she were possessed of foreknowledge of the future. Abélard’s soul was affrighted, and they walked on in silence through a windy evening, watching great clouds gathering in the dusk, a portentous sunset alarming Abélard, who barely knew whether to yield or to continue to oppose her. Now that he had said that the price of his life was reckoned at marriage he could not draw back, neither could she; and they walked on till it was almost night about them, and they were startled from their reveries by Madelon, whom they overtook a quarter of a league from the valley farm weighed down by the weight of a large basket of live chickens. — I will carry these for thee, Abélard said; Madelon resisted, but Abélard took the basket from her, and Héloïse began to tell of their immediate departure, blurting out the whole story that Abélard stood in danger of his life if he returned to Paris without her. A story in which there is no surprise for me, Madelon answered, and like Héloïse she saw clearly that Fulbert’s promise to keep the marriage secret was no more than a blind. Why marry if nobody is to know you’re married? was her common-sense, and was Denise’s common-sense that night when the story was told after supper. We start in the morning, Héloïse said, and more talk only weakens and embarrasses the mind. But the baby? The baby will be well looked after, Denise answered. Have no fear, Madelon
said, for the baby; do the best you can for yourselves, and whenever anybody is going to Paris he will bring a letter to you. Have no fear for the child. But it is hard to part with him, Héloïse answered, and next morning when the horses came to the door she was not to be found. She is after her baby, Madelon said; I was the same when — Héloïse returned with traces of tears in her eyes. Alan and Denise were accompanying them to Nantes; Abélard rode a little in the rear and when, turning in their saddles, they asked him of what he was thinking, he answered: the wind is blowing from the east, which they understood to mean that the journey to Orléans would be a long one.

  Abélard thought they might take the constant wind for a sign, but he did not speak his foreboding as he stood with Héloïse watching their monotonous, almost doubtful progress from bank to bank, steering now on the short, now on the long tack, gaining a little every time, but so little that it seemed that the four days’ journey would be prolonged to fourteen. At Tours the wind dropped; the oars had to be got out, but it was hard to make way against the current, and, as the skipper foresaw, they had to lie by. At Blois the wind was west by south and it enabled them to reach Orléans, where they were advised not to take the same road through the forest that they had come by, and this advice was accepted willingly, for neither cared to return to Paris along the track of their dead happiness in suppressed and seldom talk. Alan has taught thee to ride, Abélard said at last, that is plain, and he added: we shall not spend so many days riding to Paris as we did in riding from Paris, regretting the words as soon as they were spoken. Unhappiness is reached more quickly than happiness, she answered, and the days they had spent at Saint-Jean-de-Braie, at Étampes, at Chécy, rose up in her mind; and it was difficult for her to keep back her tears, but she kept them back, wearing as cheerful a countenance as she could during the journey, which filled several days, each seeming bitterer than the last till they drew rein at the Little Bridge, and knew they had came to their parting, Héloïse going to her uncle’s house in the rue des Chantres, and Abelard to his lodging. She threw him her horse’s reins and turned her head to see him ride away; and that was all till they met next day and were married in the presence of the witnesses that assembled in the rue des Chantres for the drawing of the covenant. And all was according to the covenant, husband and wife separating after the marriage, Héloïse returning disdainfully, so it seemed to Abélard, who on his way back to his lodging began to understand that Héloïse’s instinct for the truth was surer than his. He had already abandoned hope that the marriage would be kept a secret, and as he sat in his room alone he asked himself again and again why he had consented to this marriage; not only consented, he said to himself, but forced the marriage upon her. Assassination would have been better for me than this, but not for her. Unhappy fortune, thrice unhappy fortune, he said, and his thoughts melted away. When he returned to himself it was to remember that their return to Paris would set all the gossips talking and that Fulbert, despite his wish to keep the secret (if he entertained such a wish), would have to confess the marriage to his fellow-canons. And from the Cathedral the tidings would spread rapidly over the city. All this he foresaw, but not that Héloïse would deny the marriage, thereby exciting her uncle’s rage against her. If Madelon were here — he said, as he sat chewing the new story of Fulbert’s cruelty. If Madelon were here — he muttered, as he paced the floor, thinking how Héloïse’s escape might be contrived. The door opened. It was she. Abélard guessed her errand, and when he heard her story he took her hand, saying: thou wast right in Brittany, thou art always right, Héloïse. Marriages are broken, she answered, whenever it suits Rome to break them, and the Pope may break ours to retain thee for the Church.

  The Pope’s care, Abélard answered, is for emperors rather than for philosophers, and the truth of his words appealing to her understanding instantly, she replied: thy father and mother wearied of the world and entered the religious life, breaking thereby the marriage bond. But thou’rt not minded that we should do likewise? If I escape to the convent of Argenteuil, she said, thou’lt be free to enter the priesthood. If, Abélard cried, thou takest the veil. Yes, Abélard, if I take the veil, she replied, and that I will do, for by taking it I shall give a philosopher to the Church. The Church needs no philosopher, and I cannot sacrifice thee; my life is with thee, O resolute, indomitable Héloïse. But Pierre, thou wilt not lose me but gain me; and he stood looking into her eyes, her meaning becoming slowly clear to him. The heart of the Prioress is a simple one, he said, and having known love herself she turns a kindly ear to the stories of lovers, but — But, Héloïse intervened, she need not, indeed she must not, know of our meetings; nor need there be any, thou must not come to Argenteuil before ordination. But, Abélard answered, we must meet and swear that by one common accord we are moved to embrace the religious life. As a priest the convent will be free to thee, she answered, and the abstinences imposed upon us will keep our love from fading. We shall never become common to each other, as might befall us in wedlock. As she spoke she loosed her girdle. This is the last night we shall spend together for many a day, she continued, with a trace of fever in her voice. Be not afraid, Héloïse, he will not dare to come hither with hirelings to put us apart, for God has said: those that God hath joined together let no man put asunder. It will be better, she said, for me to go to Argenteuil without delay. But he cannot claim thee, said Abélard. I shall be safer in the convent than here, she answered. In such talk and restless sleep the night went by, and at dawn they passed without noise from the house and up and hid themselves by the Little Bridge to wait for a cart going to Argenteuil. And they were not long hidden when a rumble caught the ear. If it should be on its way to Argenteuil — Héloïse said. Then we are indeed fortunate, Abélard replied. A bit of a round Argenteuil will be, the peasant said, but no matter, I will take you; and moving up the bench from which he drove, he made room for them. When thou’rt a priest thou’lt come to see me? And Abélard answered: let this be our covenant: that I remain away till I am ordained and thou’lt wait in the convent for me. I’ll wait faithful, she answered, but we shall meet again, for the Prioress will send for the Bishop of Paris. I will see him this day, he replied; and their talk was continued in abrupt Latin sentences, till at last, as if unable to bear the strain any longer, Abélard said: we are now within a mile or two of Argenteuil. And without more words he jumped from the cart and disappeared round a bend in the lane.

  Thy good man be in a hurry to leave thee, and he goeth like a man that hath a heavy load of business on his mind; that I can hear, though I have no Latin. Héloïse answered the peasant: thine eyes tell thee what thine ear heareth not. Faith, lady, he said, your good sense puts you into the way of my mind; and for the rest of the journey he was telling the story of his horse, bought at a fair some two years back for half of his value, the peasant chuckled. The very horse, everyone was saying, for a nobleman’s coach; and he would have gone for a big sum of money. But standing behind the horse, I saw that one of his quarters was lower than the other, a thing that mattered not at all in the animal’s work, and not much in his appearance, for the droop could only be seen when standing directly behind him, and the horse at ease. Come, says I to the man about to buy him, canst not see? See what? says he. Well, the droop, says I. Lord! thou’rt right, cried he, and he shoves all his money back into his pocket. After that the sale was spoiled; nobody would look at the horse, and in the end, rather than take him home unsold, the owner let me have him for half the price. And a better horse, the peasant chuckled, was never between the shafts. Always stand behind a horse — me feyther’s very words to me. And the peasant continued his giggling chatter about his father, who was a farrier, and the best in the country, without noticing that Héloïse’s thoughts were far away among the seven years of her childhood spent in the convent which she was waiting to see. At last it came into view, looking like a line of low buildings rather than a single one, grey stone walls and red roofs rising at right angles to one another, with a squat b
ell tower, the sight of which reminded her of the many offices that its tolling inforced. The bell was always tolling for some thing or other and at every moment of the last mile of her journey she expected to hear its clanging tongue. At last it began to toll, and while waiting till Mass was over she remembered how dependent her life was once upon that bell, and how again she would become subject to it for all her life long, till it tolled for her funeral. From daybreak till dusk it would toll out her life, its first tolling beginning at six for Urban’s prayer, and not long after it would be tolling for Matins, Lauds, Prime, Tierce and Mass. It would toll at the Consecration, and for Sext, for None and for their meal at eleven, and again at noon for Urban’s prayer; for Vespers, for our meal, she added, at the fifth hour; for Compline, and for silence at sunset.